


Troublesome Robot Girls

by Yelir61



Category: Mahou Sensei Negima!
Genre: Explicit Language, F/F, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Robot/Human Relationships, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yelir61/pseuds/Yelir61
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On her way home from a shopping trip, Chisame makes an unpleasant discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Troublesome Robot Girls

Goddammit, you hate winter. You don’t exactly like going outside anyways, being an chronic recluse with an internet addiction that puts you just a step away from being a hikikomori, but you especially hate going outside during the winter. It’s cold as hell, slogging through the snow makes you feel like you weigh even more then you already do, and if you are particularly unlucky (which you always are), the little 24 hour store where you buy enough food and tea and toiletries to last you another few weeks will be playing the same five fucking Christmas songs over and over till you want to put a bullet through the head of the smiling cashier who is humming along happily despite the fact that she must have heard all of these songs long enough to drive any sane person to madness and murder, before retiring from society to become a full-on hermit who gets her groceries delivered.

The fact that you haven’t done this already has more to do with your lack of a gun (or any experience firing one that is not an orbital cannon) than your patience and self-restraint, which are in short supply at the best of times. You do consider it something of a personal triumph that you manage to resist the urge to quietly summon your artifact and use it to change the music to Norwegian death metal on your way out the door.

Once outside, you are faced with the dismal prospect of another march through the snow, this time with the addition of a couple of full bags of groceries to make your return to your blessed, wonderfully warm home even longer than the initial trip here was. For a moment, your will waivers, before visions of steam rising from the kettle and the comforting glow of your computer monitor propel you forward. Cursing and grumbling, you kick your way through the snow, until you reach your small apartment complex.

There is a body at your door.

You pause, from the ground floor, squinting up at your apartment’s entryway, waiting for it to shift before your eyes into a dropped coat, or a package of computer parts, or a bicycle of the sort that constantly clutters the stairwells, making going up and down a life-threatening affair.

No matter how long you stare, it remains a body.

So you slowly climb the stairs, groceries placed on the ground and artifact now in hand (though what help you think it is going to be in this situation is beyond you), never taking your eyes from the figure lying prone on your doorstep. Stepping between bicycles, some which seem as old and rusted as the red strip of metal the landlord somehow convinced the safety inspectors counted as a handrail, you approach the body without any clear plan in mind. At the top of the stairs, you stop, trying to get a closer look, to see whether or not it is a sleeping homeless man, trying to escape the cold, or a crazed fan of Chiu who managed to track her down and now lies in wait, or some magic monster, ready to spring up and devour you whole.

It’s Chachamaru.

And now you are sprinting forward, almost slipping on the icy walkway, as if you were not an unfit internet dweller who had just hiked nearly a mile through too many inches of snow. You fall to your knees at her side in a manner you know you will pay for later, and do your best to examine her.

You have seen her worse off, but not often. Two holes, one the size of your fist and the other far larger, have been punched through her torso, letting you see the oil and coolant and other mysterious robot girl fluids that pool beneath her. Her left arm is gone entirely, amputated at the elbow, and her right fist is tightly clenched. Her legs are twisted, bent in directions that your instincts scream they should not bend, though for all you know they have always been able to do that. Her face is almost unmarred, save for a long crack running down from her left temple to cross her lips. She is completely motionless. Chachamaru lies upon your doorstep, staring up at you with lifeless eyes and dressed in a short black dress, and you do not know what to do.

The clank of your artifact slipping from your fingers to hit her shakes you into action. Snatching it back up with one hand and fumbling with your keys with the other, your only thought is to get her inside, as if the cold is her problem. Finally managing to get the door open, you do your best to drag her inside and are abruptly reminded that even with your newfounded panicked strength, she is still a metal robot who’s a hell of a lot heavier than she looks. After minutes of desperate pulling and cursing, you manage to get her inside and propped up against your small couch. Slamming the door closed with far more force than you had intended, you stumble backwards and collapse beside her, panting.

What are you going to do? You’re not some kind of science prodigy or Martian time traveler. You are a hacker with a magic wand and an interest in cosplay. You don’t know the first thing about fixing up damaged magitech robot girls, and everyone who does is off in La-La Land and beyond your reach. The internet hasn’t gotten to the magic world yet, and cell phones only work when calling from there. Every magic person you know who might be able to send a message is either gone or are back at Mahora, and you don’t think a single one of them has an email address.

In the midst of your panicked thoughts, you notice that there is something sticking out of her right fist. Managing to pry her hand open, you find it to be her key. Unsure of what else to do, you kneel upon your couch cushions, place into into the back of her head, and turn it.

After a few tentative twists which result in no reaction, you become desperate enough to give it a hard turn. Chachamaru’s moan is shocking enough to send you reeling backwards, almost falling over the back of the couch, before you manage to catch yourself. Feeling the blood rush to your face, you continue to wind the girl more slowly, which frustratingly does not seem to stop her from making sounds which manage to twist your stomach into knots even in the midst of your panic.

Just when you are afraid that your efforts are doing nothing but embarrassing you, the noise abruptly stops. Shifting a bit, you can see Chachamaru’s right hand pressed to her mouth. “You alright?” you ask shakily, taking your hands from the key. Which is a stupid question, since she is missing an arm and has two holes in her torso, but you can't think of anything else to say.

She removes her hand, doing her best to turn and face you from where she sits. Her face is bright red, and she does not quite meet your eyes. “Yes, thank you,” she says, in that soft, musical voice of hers that makes you want to punch a wall. It wobbles a bit as she speaks. “Do not be alarmed. My injuries are not severe.” Pushing herself off the ground, she rises to her feet, shaking only a little. “I will see about cleaning up,” she says, indicating where she has leaked upon the floor and turning towards the kitchen.

For a moment you can only stare, mouth open, before lunging forward. “You damn, stupid robot!” you sob, grabbing her the waist and pulling her into a hug. Chachamaru simply stands stock still for a moment, letting you cry into her stomach, before relaxing into you. Her arm slowly settles on your back, petting you as if you were one of her beloved cats, as she whispers meaningless, calming noises.

You stay that way for longer than you’d like to admit.


End file.
